


A Thousand Piece Puzzle

by joanwatsonisaqueen



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, wow right i actually wrote this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:16:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4079311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joanwatsonisaqueen/pseuds/joanwatsonisaqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It just so happens that people, and all the deceits and illusions that inform everything they do, tend to be the most fascinating puzzles of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Piece Puzzle

It ends. Joan moves to Sydney, as far away from _him_ as possible. He runs back to England across the pond from New York: a place full of memories with _her_.

She renews her licence, gets married and divorced exactly five years later. No offspring is produced.

He continues solving cases and tending to the bees. He never dares to make eye contact with Euglassia Watsonia.

Only twenty years pass. Twenty years of refusal and denial.

 _We are bound, somehow_.

At least that’s where he was right.

They meet again, twenty years later not in a conference, not in an office, not on a flight, not at an airport, not through a mutual friend (if there are _friends_ that are mutual), not by Bell or Gregson, not through Kitty ( _she keeps going back and forth trying to convince them)_.

They meet accidentally, both visiting the place that they have never forgotten.

Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson meet at the Brownstone. It was not planned. _Nothing_ was planned. No one knew.

It was a secret visit from her. She couldn’t resist it any longer. Joan just wanted a small glimpse of the home where they had spent years together.

He just wanted to relive her memories for the last time.

Oh how they didn’t know, that this could lead to them facing each other in person.

Kitty is ecstatic when she hears that Joan wants to visit New York.

“It’s nothing special. I just wanted to see how the Brownstone is holding up.”

“You miss him.” Joan clinks her cup back into saucer, and faces her determinedly.

“I don’t _miss_ him. Of course what could I miss? His ignorance, his ridiculousness and the egoistic attitude is all I could miss, Kitty.”

Kitty flinches outwardly at her icy tone.

Joan doesn’t reply for a long time.

****

Sherlock is putting the book in his suitcase when Kitty strides in, a woman too excited for the one staying back at home.

“You are going.”

“I wanted to see the Brownstone’s progress.” He snaps back at her, a mixture of frustration and exasperation.

“Of course you did.” Her smile is unmissable.

“Kitty, if you have something productive to do, then leave. I am busy at the moment.”

“You miss her.”  

The change in his posture is striking.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You _miss_ her _.”_

A scoff erupts from the mouth that has not mentioned her in twenty years.

“Miss? Oh I am glad she went away. All that bollocks about knowing yourself, needless codswallop. Miss her, Kitty? I am glad I don’t remember her.” He never makes one eye contact while throwing his belongings into the suitcase.

She hides the tears that are threatening to leak out of her eyes, and slowly slides out the house.

He doesn’t move for a long time.

****

“ _A notice to all passengers boarding the British Airways Flight 0180 to New York: boarding commences in five minutes.”_

The man next to him never stops smiling at a woman’s picture, presumably his wife, who is _obviously_ having an affair. He pats his shoulder and tells him exactly that and receives a punch in return.

***  
“ _Good morning ladies and gentlemen, boarding for Qantas Airways Flight QF517 to New York will commence now.”_

The woman next to her never stops texting a person named _my love_ , most likely her husband, who is _obviously_ having an affair judging the time gaps between his texts compared to hers. Despite all the gullibility, she refrains from commenting.

****

It’s the bright lights of the city that cause her to take a step back and crash with the person behind her.

“I am so sorry.”

“That’s alright.” His smile is too cheerful even after that long flight, and she flashes a weak one in return.

Ten meters behind, he accidentally bumps his bag into a young lady.

“My apologies.”

“No problem.” She dismisses the fault, gives a smile and keeps on walking.

***

She gets the first taxi and he gets the fourth one, both moving past each other oblivious of the presence.

It’s only seven, and she decides to freshen up and leave in an hour for Brooklyn.

For him, an hour seems reasonable for his former home.

They both give the addresses for the hotel they’re staying at, only a few meters from each other.

****

The streets are lively as she passes by, a warm scarf wound around her neck. Brooklyn has been transformed, and she hates this. Only one street is untouched, the street where the Brownstone is.

He buries his face into his coat, despising the loud noise of bars and music and of happiness and liveliness. He doesn’t realise the breath he has been holding when the street comes into view. Their home is still intact.

They are on the other sides of the road: unable to notice the faces due to the dimming of the light in the desolate street.

She crosses the road, and again bumps into someone, causing him to drop his pen. It’s not someone but it’s _him_. There are a few curses under both their breaths.

“I am _so_ sorry. Here, let me pick that up for you. Again, I am sorry. I really should look where I am going-”

“No, really, it was my fault. I do apologise. I should’ve seen you coming. It was rather ignorant of me-”

They both stop midway through their ramblings. Even after these years, they haven’t forgotten each other’s voice.

She is too shocked to react, and he is too stunned to utter anything. They stand silently and slowly meet each other’s eyes, taking everything in.

Watson might’ve aged, but she is just as beautiful. The tightness of her facial skin might’ve loosened, but she hasn’t changed with her hair cascading around her shoulders and the cheekbones still defined.  

Sherlock might have a few wrinkles on his forehead, his hairline has receded and there are crinkles around the corner of his eyes, but he is just as striking. His eyes have not lost its colour.

“Watson.”

“Sherlock.”

Time has been forever frozen still.

****

 

“Uh, Watson, how’ve you been?” Sherlock is clearly, just as adept at communicating.

“I-I’ve been well, uh, how about you?” They are not sharing eye contact, instead taking a position just above the bridge of the nose.

“We could go to the coffee shop to chat, if you’d like.” Sherlock awkwardly put his hands out and reconsidering his mistake, stuffs them back into his pocket. It sounds like suggesting places they could go on a date for, and he grimaces internally.

“Actually, I’d much rather just sit at the footsteps of the Brownstone. There are far too many affairs going out there.”

They share a genuine laugh for the first time and turn away, embarrassed.

“I agree. It’s a bit quieter out here.”

They take a place in front of _their_ Brownstone, as far apart from each other to not invade the personal space and boundaries.

There is no conversation starter.

“What brings you here Watson?”

“Ah, all my family is meeting together and I _had_ to come. You?” She lies, trying her hardest to slip by.

He understands, as he has always done.

“I have a conference to attend tomorrow morning. Being the guest speaker, I had to arrive here.” He nods, a sharp nod, a categorised nod, a lying Sherlock Holmes nod. She smiles to herself.

“Are you still consulting for Scotland Yard?” She wants to keep it going, to know how he was been, to see whether he survived out there. It’s a cruel blow after the ends. They are keeping their tones unnaturally formal.

“No. Not regularly, to be precise. I have resorted to forwarding insights into the cold cases.”

She utters a small acknowledgement, a needless confirmation, which does nothing to close the large gap these twenty years have created.

“You renewed your medical licence, hm?”

“Yeah, it has worked out pretty well.”

The silences have never been as this awkward.

“Watson-”

“Sherlock-”

They try again, albeit a little simultaneous than they had expected. After all, they are Holmes and Watson, bouncing ideas off each other, _making each other better._

“It’s been twenty years, is it not?” He lifts his head towards the sky, towards the brightest star in the night sky, unknowingly moving towards her.

“Twenty years since we parted ways.” She obliviously mirrors his movements; the horizontal distance between them lessening.

“You were an asshole though.” She doesn’t realise the sentence is already out of her mouth with such bitterness before she can take it back.

“I am sorry? _I_ was the culprit?” The final confrontation was inevitable.

“Of course you were Sherlock. The fact that you went behind everyone’s back to do _that_ , after everyone we had been through: you never trusted me.” She throws her hand into the air.

“Correct deduction Watson. I was just following in your footsteps.” He clenches and unclenches his fist repeatedly until the knuckles start to turn white.

She scoffs, denying her instincts. “You didn’t change. I thought maybe, just maybe, you had the decency to let down your attitude and find your fault, but no I was wrong.”

“You had expectations for me Watson that you couldn’t even follow yourself. Rather hypocritical, don’t you think?”

She flips ninety degrees and gives him the hardest glare she has ever given.

“ _You_ decided, Sherlock that it was fine to follow a serial killer who, let me add, was assigned by Moriarty to kill us. Marcus and the Captain had the police force on their way, but no of course you had to do the honour.”

“He was intending to flee.” Their voices increase in volume and the couple passing by give a sidelong glance.

“You didn’t tell _me!”_

“And what would that achieve exactly? This was not an issue of trust.”

“Because of course it wasn’t? It’s never been about trust, is it? The fact that you trusted Moriarty more than me was the breaking point, Sherlock.”

“I never _trusted_ Moriarty. I had deduced her plan and the killer was a distraction, Watson. She had planned this. The captain and Detective Bell would not have been there in time.”

“This is what I hated about you, Sherlock. This is exactly what I never came to terms with. You always decide to take matters into your own hands. You put everyone’s life in danger, just because you think you’re right.”

“Well put, Watson. I presume your doubt upon my skills, _our_ skills, had never been a problem up until then.”

There’s always a final straw. There’s always that final piece of emotion, argument, action that eliminates the most cherished of things.

“You know what? Now I think about it, there was no partnership in the first place. It was always about you. Partnership meant equality. There _was_ no equality, no balance, no sense of achievement together.”

“Partnership meant trusting each other’s abilities. You always seemed to doubt me more than anyone else I have known. You never participated in the act of partnership, Watson. You were just there for the ride.”

They are shaking with the anger, the frustration and the conclusions of the twenty years in between. Tears are about to consume her and his face is turning a deathly shade of white.

Joan runs a hand through her hair and shakes her head distractedly. 

“This is not how this is supposed to go.”

He has his head in his hands, and mumbles a reply only he can hear.

“No, it isn’t.”

***

They part ways again, without even a glance at the Brownstone or each other.

Déjà vu had never felt so horrifying.

She has a flight home the next afternoon, and he is leaving tomorrow evening. They won’t see each other again.

This was their final meeting: a bitter goodbye that ended in hostile words. Her life in Sydney will be the same and he will continue in Leeds. Their feelings had been separated and packed into the plastic bags like the organs of a recently autopsied corpse.

At night, they sit at the windows of their hotel rooms and give in to emotions, letting out the cries they never thought they were holding.

The star in the night sky dims a little.

****

He is closing the laptop lid when there is a knock at his hotel door.

_Housekeeping._

Opening the door, he doesn’t realise how wrong he is. He swings it open and comes face to face with Joan Watson, who is staring at the floor.

Sherlock is too nervous to react.

“Uh Watson.”

She brings her hand forward, holding a blue pen.

“You forgot this yesterday.” He can clearly hear the crack in her voice and guilt seeps into the edges of his brain.

“I-I-thank you.”

She nods a little too brusquely and grimaces internally. All Joan needs to do is return.

_One step back. Two steps back. Three steps back._

It seems reasonably easy, but with Sherlock standing in the doorway, she can’t force herself.

“Have a good flight back.” The longer she stays here and speaks, in front of him, the longer she will have doubts.

Joan clenches her fist and convinces herself to take quick steps towards the elevator.

“Watson.” This isn’t the first time he has stopped her, and this isn’t the first time she has listened.

She doesn’t turn her back though. Just stares ahead, holding the tears back from him.

He tries to continue.

“I am sorry.”

The scoff that comes out of her mouth is not expected.

“No, I don’t mean-” He starts again.

“I realise that I have not apologised to you. There are numerous incidents that have come in between us and I realise that I haven’t apologised for them. I do take a part when I say that it was my mistake as well. I understand that the last incident created a divide that lasted twenty years and isn’t willing to lessen.” His voice reduces to a whisper and she has to strain her neck to hear him.

“I do not want you leaving remembering our last words. I do understand that this is our last meeting together. We won’t be seeing each other again. I just wanted to say sorry and thank you for everything you’ve done and sacrificed for me. You are an integral part of my life and will continue to be, Watson. Thank you for being my partner, my competition, my friend or as Bell said: a better half.”

She doesn’t realise how tightly she is clutching her scarf until she feels a hand gingerly touch her shoulder and leave with the same speed.

Joan stills for a moment before regaining her composure. He doesn’t realise how quickly she turns and walks into his hotel room.

He follows behind, utterly confused.

“Watson?”

She spots her target and snatches the piece of paper in her hand, tearing it apart into very, _very_ small pieces. Sherlock stands at the edge of the door, gobsmacked.

It’s been a quite a while since he has seen her smile. On the floor lie the torn pieces of a plane ticket from New York to London.

“You moron, you think I am letting you leave without actually visiting the Brownstone.”

***

Turns out, she lets him tear her aeroplane ticket as well and it is surprisingly liberating. This time, they visit the Brownstone. Mrs Hudson’s successor has taken immaculate care of it.

Inside, the furniture is still arranged as it was twenty years ago, with Sherlock’s locks arranged in the order of oldest to latest manufacture date to Joan’s favourite armchair beside the fireplace. It doesn’t feel like they’ve been gone for long.

After hours and hours inside the home scouring each and every floor, they make their way upstairs to the roof. New York might’ve increased in its consumer size but it still has its dark corners that feel like home.

Sentiment is a daring emotion and Joan doesn’t realise she has let a few tears slip. Sherlock, clearly moved himself, grabs her hand and gives it a light squeeze. They don’t let go.

“I didn’t realise how much I missed this. The Brownstone, New York, running around catching criminals.”

“We didn’t run around, Watson.”  He laughs, an unfamiliar noise spilling out of his mouth and she doesn’t realise how much she has missed that as well, until now.

“You know what I mean.”

There’s a moment of comfortable silence, before he speaks.

“Neither New York or the Brownstone drained me, Watson. It will forever remain the one and only home I have known.”

“Our home.” She tightens her grip on his hand, calloused but warm, and leans into him.

“Indeed, _our_ home.”

***

Joan adjusts her destination from Sydney to Leeds, mainly to surprise Kitty. Sherlock is overjoyed but doesn’t express it too much, in case of this being a dream.

_I should be in Dublin with Marcus solving cases and here I am in Leeds, cleaning this bloody place._

She doesn’t realise how loud she is talking to herself before she hears his voice.

“Quite eager to be with your paramour, aren’t you Kitty?”

“I’d say that she can’t control her feelings, but then she _is_ married to Marcus.”

Kitty stops midway in rolling her eyes after hearing _her_ voice, and whips around so quickly that her neck screams in agony. 

“Watson?” Kitty’s eyes are wide and large seeing Sherlock and Joan standing at the foot of the door, _together,_ smiling lightly in amusement.

“What are you doing here anyway? Did he force you to clean his house again?” She walks in, as Sherlock picks up both of their suitcases, dragging them to a corner.

Kitty still has recovered from her shock, let alone reply to a question. 

“It’s really me.” Joan squeezes her shoulder, pulling her chair out, and making her sit.

Sherlock cranes his neck from the living room to check if someone didn’t rearrange his books again.

“Sherlock, she is really not talking.” Joan calls out to him.

Kitty grips her chair in absolute joy, before jumping up and hugging Joan tightly.

“Oh my god, I have to be dreaming this, right?” Joan laughs before breaking apart.

“I am pretty sure you’re not dreaming. I could check if you wanted me to.”

She blinks her eyes.

_Once. Twice. Thrice._

They are still there as Sherlock walks over to Joan, standing beside each other sharing entertained glances.

“How-”

“It’s a long story,” Joan slides away towards the kitchen, “I am very hungry first. The aeroplane food was absolutely horrible and I haven’t eaten anything since last night.”

Sherlock returns Kitty’s reaction, marvelling at how easily Joan fits in. He is amazed at how much her presence changes this place from a bleak house to a welcoming home. Over the twenty years, he had made himself believe that he didn’t need Watson. He had persuaded himself that he could live and solves cases till old age, all by himself. _After all, he was quite self-sufficient._

He wonders, bright-eyed, at what Watson is: a brilliant woman, a light of hope in the darkened tunnel, a painting brush to an empty canvas. Watson is a brilliant doctor, a brilliant detective and an even brilliant friend. He can’t produce a reason as to why he deserves to have _her_ in his life.

Sherlock doesn’t realise he is staring, until Watson snaps his fingers.

“Are you two okay? You’ve been staring for the last five minutes and I don’t think you’ve heard anything I said.” A concern flashes over her features.

He doesn’t reply and instead bounds hurriedly up the stairs, even at this age, not letting any emotion show.

Kitty comes to her senses first.

“Don’t worry Joan; I think he’s a little overwhelmed. You would be seeing your partner after so many years. First, you need to tell me what happened.” She drags her to the sofa, eager to learn the story, as Joan lifts a knowing glance upstairs.

****

 She finds him, on the roof, smaller than New York’s, staring out towards the countryside.

The view is beautiful and it strikes her to how much this house in Leeds matches their Brownstone in New York.  

_You would be overwhelmed seeing your partner after so many years._

She thinks of Sherlock, sitting here lonely, for twenty years and a pang of guilt passes through her. Her life in Sydney might’ve constantly reminded her of their memories but it had kept her busy between her new friends and the long hours of work.

She thinks of him, not having anyone here, without any friends, with Kitty away in Dublin, with very few cases to solve, with having this whole house and thoughts to himself. A chill passes through her spine, rooting her to the spot.

“You okay?”

He violently flinches from her words, waking from a trance.

“Ah Watson, you should rest after the long flight.” The sentence comes out in fragments, his shoulders shivering from the biting wind.

“Come downstairs Sherlock. It’s too cold up here.”

He shakes his head in denial.

“I’ll be down soon, Watson. Go rest.” She is Joan Watson and she can easily pick up the lies in his words so she draws a chair from a corner and sits down beside him.

“Are you okay? You haven’t said much since we left New York yesterday night.”

He doesn’t reply and keeps staring ahead, his teeth starting to chatter slightly.

“Sherlock, I am sorry.”

He snaps his head around, facing her, incredulous.

“For what?”

“For not trusting you. I am sorry for not believing in your decisions, for questioning you, for not trusting you, Sherlock, when you wanted the best for me and for us.”

“It wasn’t-” She cuts him off.

“No, please, let me finish. I do know you were an idiot in not telling me, but you did it for a reason. I found out yesterday after I went back to the hotel and dug into the files. Moriarty has been tracking my movements more than yours and had eyes everywhere, and you knew telling me would give her another chance to get an upper hand. You knew I could’ve added two and two together and figured out what you were doing but being me, I didn’t realise that this was important. Yes, I was a detective and yes I was your partner and yes I needed to know and yes you did apologise but I overreacted. You weren’t trusting Moriarty: you were making it look like you were. I should’ve-”

“Watson-”

“I am sorry for not understanding you in the crucial moments when you were taking a risk on your life to protect mine. Last time I left, I had a reason. I wanted my own space. This time, I wasn’t sure why it was the breaking point. I kept persuading myself in Sydney that it was your fault but didn’t realise my own. I was blinded by the incidents, Sherlock. Moriarty never lost that day. She achieved what she wanted as her last wish because of me.”

She has her hand clasped together tightly, eyes glazed as the moon shines in the night sky.

Sherlock doesn’t have any words.

“I sent you the picture of the bees every year for a decade.”

“I never parted with them, Sherlock.”

“You never seemed to reply so I ceased. I came to the conclusion that our partnership had ended.”

She leans her head back on the chair, eyes looking at his silent figure.

“I fear this is a dream, Watson. I fear that you are here for the moment and will leave. I fear that this won’t last long. I fear I will make another mistake, not caring about the consequences.” The chill in the wind becomes stronger and they shiver violently.

Joan grabs his hand on instinct.

“I am not leaving, Sherlock. I’ve had enough. Running away isn’t what I want.”

His heart swells from the confirmation that she wants to stay. That she wants to give each other another chance.

“How does New York seem?” His eyes gleam in the darkness, meeting hers.

“It seems perfect.” He puts his free hand on top of hers.

They sit like this for seconds and hours, until it becomes _too_ cold. Moving towards the door, Sherlock looks at Joan Watson and says something he has always wanted to say, but never had the courage to.  

“I love you, Watson.”

Joan tenses with surprise for a moment before turning around, a large grin on her face. He bends down and presses a small kiss to her forehead.

“I love you too, you idiot.”

Kitty calls from downstairs.

“Are you two coming down or not? It’s freezing up there.”

She doesn’t understand how Sherlock is able to reply in same range at this age.

“We’ll be there soon, Kitty. Stop shouting.”

“Stop being a hypocritical prick.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say.”

It’s Joan turn to calm these two down. She is amazed at how large _her_ range still is.

“Seriously, can both of you stop shouting in the middle of night?”

They shut up entirely, a wounded look on Sherlock’s face.

He mumbles as they walking down the stairs.

“Honestly, Watson, I thought you were going to take my side.”

“She likes me more, Sherlock.” Kitty appears from the doorway, a smirk plastered on her features.

“You can play favourites between yourself. I am going to eat.” Joan rolls her eyes.

“You’ve got the wrong idea, Kitty. Watson favours me over you.”

“That’s a load of bollocks, you know that right?”

Joan lets out affectionate smile as Kitty and Sherlock follow behind her, still arguing over who the favourite is.

 _This part of the puzzle had been missing_.

Her life has been a puzzle with a thousand pieces unconnected. Over the years, she had found those pieces and connected it all together, _all by herself_ , but there was the one damned piece that was always missing.

Now she has it in her hands. She was missing the crucial part of the story: the part where the heroine finds her very own home, decorated with all her favourite things, bright lights everywhere, mystery corners to still explore, lonely and dark and welcoming and everything she had ever hoped for.

_Every puzzle has an answer._

Kitty and Sherlock are still arguing but they are closer to her now, with Sherlock’s shoulder brushing against hers as he sits down with a case file. Kitty squeezes her hand lightly as she drags a chair beside them. Surprisingly, Sherlock doesn’t comment on the horrendously screeching noise the dragging makes.

This is the story of consulting detective Joan Watson and Sherlock Holmes, the man she loves the most, and the young woman they both cherish called Kitty Winter. This is the story of Sherlock Holmes and his partner, Joan Watson, the woman he loves the most, and their Kitty Winter.  This is the story of Kitty Winter and her two inspirations, the two people she will forever love, the two people who she will never forget: Joan Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

This is the answer to the most difficult question, the key to an unopened lock, the green traffic light to a stream of cars waiting to reach their destination, the final page to a riveting story, the final tick of the clock, the last breath to an astonishing adventure.

“Watson, what do you say? Shall we add another to our litany of cases?” For them, their last breaths are closer, but it isn’t the predator.

“I thought you’d never ask.” It’s the victim.

The look they share fills their void of twenty years. His eyes are twinkling; the light of the lamp reflecting back in his eyes. Her face is glowing with the blaze of the embers inside the fireplace despite the wind howling outside. Kitty ducks her head and smiles.

_Every puzzle has an answer._

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there, so yes this might be a complete train-wreck because I wrote it in just half an hour and yes it's rather cliche but I wanted something different. Same ending though. What do you all think of it?


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